


I Miss Him More Than Summer

by JonsaInTheNorth



Series: Heart of the Seasons [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 06:04:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18424404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonsaInTheNorth/pseuds/JonsaInTheNorth
Summary: Sansa waits for Jon after he leaves to fight the war for the dawn.





	I Miss Him More Than Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AliceInNeverNeverLand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInNeverNeverLand/gifts).



> This was posted eons ago and then deleted in October 2018 because I had a minor fit of "I should really get off the internet."
> 
> Dedicated to @goodqueenalys on tumblr for her support of this fic back in 2016. I'm in the middle of editing the two other parts but they will be up again shortly!

**A sennight past he left her, and still the tears stain her pillows.**

Jon is a memory of shadow in every cold grey hall, in the soft beat of her heart each time she wraps her arms around her torso, in the touch of snowflakes upon her flushed cheek when she stands on the ramparts, staring out and waiting, always waiting.

Sansa glances at the place beside her, the bed perfectly made, and on top of the blankets is the wolf cloak she made him, sewn during those simple days at Castle Black, the cloak Jon discarded when he left the safety of Winterfell. When he left her. Sansa reaches for the empty, cold side of her bed, a place she wishes for the hundredth time she had told him was his, would always be his.

Instead, she held her treacherous thoughts in.  _We are not Lannisters_. And even when Bran whispered to them in the godswood, telling them the truth about Jon's parents, Sansa could not say her heart’s desire, did not wish to seem so eager for someone who once was closer blood. 

And now he rides South, for his aunt and freedom. Sansa sleeps all alone in Winterfell’s walls, cold despite the hot springs that run through them. He rides South, for a family he never knew, for a family that will treat him better than she ever did. An aunt with dragons and dragonglass and a hundred thousand Dothraki warriors at her command. A Queen who comes from the most beautiful blood line Westeros has ever known, who can offer power and forces they desperately need to win this war.

By day, Sansa is the cold Princess of Winter, daughter of Ice and Wolves and Lady of Winterfell. Her eyes shine like frozen lakes and her commands come strong like white winds. By night, she is still the stupid, foolish girl who went South, the girl Sansa thought did not return, could never return. Her hair falls around her face like curtains on a play's stage, letting her mourn his loss in quiet peace.

* * *

**It takes three months for the Wall to fall, for Night to conquer the realm.**

Sansa has stopped crying now, for tears are precious commodities, not to be wasted. And so is her time, with none of that to spare for errant thoughts of forsaken love. She welcomes the denizens of winter town into the First Keep, bars the door to Winterfell’s crypt, and waits for the word of her King.

No message comes, but instead, a Queen.

The dark black dragon descends from the sky in a breath of fiery light so unusual in the darkness. It burns a trail of glory through the hordes of the dead, destroying the Northern ancestors and brothers in their tracks. Wave after wave of demon wights attack the castle, and wave after wave of fire sets them alight. Finally, when all the dead are fallen again, the dragon lands outside the gates, and Sansa and two Northern Lords emerge from Winterfell’s walls to greet this Dragon Queen.

“Hello, Sansa Stark. I have heard much of you from my nephew.” Daenerys Stormborn says, her words filled with wisdom beyond her young age and small frame. Unholy light seems to emanate from her white-gold hair and soft lilac eyes. “This Dark Night is nearly over, I promise you. Hold fast your prayers and we will celebrate come the Spring.”

Despite this news, Sansa cannot smile. This breathtaking queen breaks bread at the High Table, awes Arya with her stories of horselords and the Battle for the Dawn and sleeps the night in Jon’s old room and Jon's old bed. But in the morning the dragon and its master head to their next battle and leave Winterfell behind in their shadow.

* * *

**A half year later, and the sun breaks on the horizon once more.**

The Battle for the Dawn is won. Yet even with the rays of orange light breaking through grey mists, Sansa does not feel warm. Her heart is colder than the darkest days of Winter.  _What comes next?_ She asks herself as she stands at her place on the ramparts, watching the edge of the King's Road for some sign that her King has returned.

Within the week, a white raven arrives from Maester Tarly at the remnants of the Wall. Uncharacteristically, it brings more besides the usual tidings of Spring. A roll of parchment is tied to its leg, with a request that brings honor to the North.

Sansa grants Maester Tarly leave to build a new Citadel in White Harbour. The other was lost long before the Night began, when one Greyjoy or another unleashed terrors of the deep upon Old Town in the Reach. Old knowledge has been lost, but new knowledge has been found. It must be recorded and preserved, so that if the enemy ever rises again humanity can be ready.

Jon goes South with Sansa's former husband and his queen. He left her as Wardeness of the North and the Lady of Winterfell. He does not deign to tell his old family this in person, but rather sends an Unsullied messenger to bring his tidings. Sansa bitterly avoids her ramparts from then on, knowing that he chose to fly south to King's Landing, rather than coming home to them. _Why didn't he come home to me?_

Suitors flock to her side, begging for her hand, promising to love her until the ends of time, anything for her title and her lands. Sansa asks if they can give her what she wants, and they all vow that they will. _But what do you know of my heart's desire?_ Sansa wonders with each new silly man bowing at her feet. And after each one proposes to her, all she can think is,  _B_ _ut you aren’t Jon_.

* * *

**It is seventeen months into the new era when the next raven comes.**

Sansa will not go to King’s Landing for Queen Daenerys’s wedding. She will never be beyond Winterfell's reach, not so long as her father’s words echo in her head. 

 _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell_.

 _I could go_ , she thinks, _but Arya makes a better envoy_. Arya, who trains the little lords under their protection in swords and acrobatics and hand-to-hand combat. Arya, the sister who can barely sit through a council meeting without sighing or falling asleep. Arya, the Stark who listens best during audiences with the smallfolk and is excited to have the opportunity to advocate for more support for their Northern people.

Arya, who returns from the South with a handsome, laughing smith and a glimmer in her eyes that no one has seen since the day Nymeria died protecting her from a wight. Arya, who regales Sansa with tales of the feast, vivid descriptions of the dancing she knows her sister missed, and the starry-eyed way King Jon gazed at his new Targaryen bride.

The night of Arya's return, Sansa cries for the first time in over two years, softly, before she sleeps. She does not think to reach for the other side of the bed anymore, has not thought of Jon since dawn rose again. Even the news of his upcoming wedding did not break her, but this news of his newfound joy has.  _He is wed and he is happy_ , she thinks, _that should be enough for me_.

* * *

 

**Her only son is seven when she finally finds peace.**

He plays in the godswood, Dragons and Wights, like she once played at Knights and Maidens. A place she once spurned as a child, Sansa now finds happiness here with her husband and son around her. Seated at the bench where once her father sat every day, she watches her two smiling boys with restful eyes and a heart unwinding from its tightened knot of troubles.

Her husband gently lifts Rickon up into the browning leaves, to show him how the trees turn colors as the seasons change. Rickon looks so much like her father, even at his tender age, with his long face and tussle of curly brown hair. He pulls a leaf from the tree and curiously gazes at it with solemn grey eyes. Sansa wishes still that his name were Eddard, but it would be an affront to name her child the same as his cousin who would someday sit the iron throne.

Beren Tallhart is kind and soft-spoken, and he loves their son. A second son of a small Northern house, Beren came only to ask for a position in her household, or somewhere on her lands, for his brother had born two sons already and had no more need for his younger brother. 

Instead she made him her husband, for the North was in need of an heir, someday, and he can make her laugh. It was his simple request that made her think she would have him, but it was his place in the world that made her accept him. She too, had a sibling of sorts who had no more need for her. 

 _It is enough_ , she thinks, _that he is gentle and kind to me, even if he is a few years younger_. He may be no Southern hero, no knight in plate who destroyed great enemies to claim her hand, but he likes to sing songs in his deep, husky voice, songs from before the Dark Night, of Florian and Jonquil and The Bear and the Maiden Fair, and he does not ask why she never visits her Southern relations, not even the young Lady of Riverrun.

But seeing Beron with Rickon melts a part of of her heart she thought long iced off. Their little scholar loves his father as he loves observing the world, and her love for him opens up another love. They are happy and joyful and celebratory together, father smiling at the son that looks so like her father. 

 _Yes_ , Sansa thinks with a small smile,  _this is enough_.

**Author's Note:**

> Also you can hit me up at [tumblr](https://www.jonsainthenorth.tumblr.com) but I have zero time to make it pretty.


End file.
